LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Vi:1/ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



X 



WAYSIDE VOICES 



WILLIAM STIVERS BATE. 




Upon my pilgrimage along life's way 
On either side have voices greeted me — 
From whispering grove, and from the laughing sea. 

And when it happened that my footpath lay 

Through Mammon's marts, where men all eager play 
Their games of greed ; or if it chanced to be 
Where Fashion's serfs to her bend willing knee, 

Songs came to me, now mournful, and now gay. 

And some I caught within the net of rhyme 
And had imprisoned in the printed page, 
That they to others from within their cage 

Should sing again, as in the bygone time. 
But not, I fear, in notes so strong and sweet 
As did their captor by the wayside greet. 



NEW YORK: 

i8qi. 



3a 



2-»<i 



IV 



T^i^tl 






Copyright, 1891, 
By WILLIAM STIVERS BATE. 



<ICOLL & ROY 
PRINTERS 
NEW YOKK 



L: ENVOI. 

I launch to-day this little barque of song. 

And wonder if 7 tvill fitid some sheltering port. 
Or be of adverse winds and waves the sport. 

And founder in Oblivion's gulf ere long. 

What fate befall, I hope it be no wrong 
For one unfamed, the plaudits sweet to court 
Of them that to the tuneful isles resort 
Where poets sing — att ever growing throtig. 

And be it solace-laden ; or give mirth 
Because of lines uncouth, or ill set sail ; 

To shape my little craft's rude ribs of rhyme 
Hath been a joy unto its builder worth 

All his loved labor, should no favoring gale 
Speed it in safety o'er the sea of Time. 



Though Time doth ever in Life's loo/n 
To warp of joy 7ved woof of gloom. 
Yet ril sitig no despondent song. 
For hope is rig Jit — despair is zvrong. 



CONTENTS. 

L'Envoi. page 

The Poet's Fancies, - i 

Scholar versus Poet, 5 

The Two Guests, 6 

Spears and Arrows, 7 

The Paths of Glory, 8 

The Dearest Fame, 16 

George Washington, 17 

The Greatest King, ig 

The Injured Friend, 21 

To a Seed, 22 

Unachieved, - - 23 

Seeds of Harvest, - 25 

Success, 27 

To a Butterfly, - - 29 

An Arcadian's Soliloquy, 31 

Ships at Sea, ..-33 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 
Tlie Evening Gun, ._._-. 3^ 

A Prairie Duel, -------35 

Sabbath Bells, ...-..- 41 

A May Morning, 44 

A Day at Navesink, .._--. 46 

Summer Hours, __.-.-- 4g 

An Autumn Afternoon, . . _ _ . 51 

The West Wind, ..--.-. 52 

A Picture of Autumn, .-.--- 54 

A Maiden's Jewel Box, ------ 56 

Foolish Moths, ------- 58 

Fidelity, --------- 59 

Smouldering Fires, _-__.- 60 

Frowns and Smiles, -------61 

Burden Bearing, _-*---- 62 

Constancy, _-___. -.64 



CONTE^fTS. 



TAGE 

Love's Later Harvest, ------ 66 

The Bride of Death, ------ 67 

Dejection, 69 

In Extremis, 71 

The Great Physician, - 72 

To Death, - - - 73 

Surcease of Sorrow, --.... 74 

Resurgam, 76 

In Memoriam, ----... 79 

An Angel's Birth, 84 

She Sleeps, -------- 86 

To One Beyond the Gates, ----- 89 

A Memory, -------- 98 

Aspiration, .--._.._ loi 

The Evening Dew, __--__ 103 

The Celestial City, ..---.. 105 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 
A SHEAF OF SONNETS: 

Star Questionings, io8 

The Unsearchable, 109 

The Loom of Life, - - - - - no 

At a Grave, in 

The Dead Tragedian, 112 

Washington, 113 

The Birth of Song, 114 

Midsummer Longings, 115 

A Mountain Tempest, - - - - - 116 

To My Books, 117 

Names. --. 118 



THE POET'S FANCIES. 

T SAID, "O poet, pray tell me 

How thy fair fancies come to thee, 
How thou dost summon from their sleep 
The thoughts that make men laugh and weep. 

He answer made, " I cannot tell 
Save from my heart they sudden well. 
And from without, on land and sea. 
Sweet voices murmur them to me. 

That in the busy haunts of men, 
In field and forest, glade and glen. 
Into my mind as swift they fly 
As meteors flash across the sky. 

And when at eve, in painted boat 
On painted wave I idly float, 
From ships a-sail in heaven's blue sea 
The helmsmen's calls seem borne to me. 



THE POETS FANCIES. 



Full often joy unto me brings, 
From her bright realms on airy wings 
A gladsome carol sweet and strong 
To voice again in human song. 

And sometimes, from the starless night 
Thoughts come to me with heavy flight, 
111 favored birds from the dark shore 
Where hopes lie wrecked forevermore. 

When over Nature's pictured book 
I dream by some wild woodland brook. 
The little elfs that near it dwell 
Of their fair haunts bid me to tell. 

The little birds so blithe and free 

A message also give to me ; 

And there, those songsters sweet among 

Each tree and flower doth find a tongue. 



THE POET'S FANCIES. 



And oft when 'thwart the summer sky 
The clouds like white-plumed warriors fly, 
The wind, their lusty trumpeter, 
Doth with his blasts my bosom stir. 

When on my couch I vigil keep 

And woo in vain coquettish sleep. 

The jeweled fingers of the night 

Glean sheaves for me in star-fields bright. 

And oft on pinions light of song 
My fairest fancies to me throng. 
Like flocks of sweetly warbling birds 
Whose notes I fain would mesh in words. 

Thus come my fancies from without. 
But oft in sorrow and in doubt, 
Through bitter tears that dim my sight 
I "look into my heart and write." 



THE POET'S FANCIES. 



For thoughts will come with sighs and tears 
The soul's back-surge to other years, 
Revealing on the sands laid bare 
The griefs we hoped deep buried there. 

Yet, often, from Hope's sun-lit sea 
Bright bannered barques come unto me, 
Like ships long sadly mourned as lost 
Thrice welcome that they're tempest-tossed. 



SCHOLAR VERSUS POET. 

'T^HE Scholar digs a diamond bright 

From the deep caverns of the mind 
The Poet, that rare gem of light 

On Fancy's (jueenly brow doth bind. 

The Sage oft finds a precious shell 
Where Reason's restless sea doth swirl 

The Poet from within that cell 

Doth take and set its priceless pearl. 



THE TWO GUESTS. 

TIT" HEN Hope, sweet maid, abides with me 

Through all the happy sun-lit hours, 
My mind's like palace fair to see 

Enparked midst lakes and trees and flowers ; 
With walls ablaze with pictures bright, 

And from whose gardens drenched with dew, 
Gay-plumaged birds with hearts all-light. 

Rise singing to the heavens blue. 

But when Despair doth with me dwell, 

'Tis like a gloomy cavern set 
Close by the gaping mouth of hell. 

With walls by noisome vapors wet 
To which uncanny creatures cling, 

And 'round which slow my fancies fly 
Like drowsy bats on heavy wing. 

To dash against the rocks and die. 



SPEARS AND ARROWS. 

"\1 rOULDST thou launch a spear of light 

Man's dark mind to reach ? 
Stand thou spotless in his sight, 
Be what thou dost teach. 

Wouldst thou wing a shaft of. song 

Him and sin to part ? 
Speed thine arrow, bright and strong, 

Love-tipped from thy heart, 



THE PATHS OF GLORY. 

nPHERE is no Appian Way to Glory's gate 

'Long which all march with legion's measured tread 
But paths whereby some reach it soon or late, 
Some never — sinking by the roadside, dead. 

A happy few — but ah! how very few — 

Have gained that goal with footsteps swift and light, 
But more, of toil, and tears, and conflict, knew, 

Yet stumbled ever onward up the height. 

And is it, too, thy joyless lot to live 

From all thy fair ideals far apart, 
The bud and blossom of thy life to give 

To dreary tasks in which thou hast no heart ? 

To dwell a stranger with thy nearest kin. 
Amid the chattering crowd to feel alone, 

A soul an-hungered, have thy breast within, 

That cries full-oft for bread, and gets — a stone ? 



THE PATHS OF GLORY. 



To yearn on eagle-wing to ever soar 

Within the empyrean of the mind,. 
Yet doomed to labor at Care's heavy oar 

And to her gloomy galleys be confined? 

To breathe the baneful atmosphere of greed, 
Of mean ambitions, and of petty hate ; 

To sigh for field all fit for lofty deed, 

Yet turning e'er the treadmill of thy fate? 

Is such thy lot? Then thou dost only bear 

The burdens greater souls than thine have borne, 

Yet never wholly vanquished by Despair, 
Though often by his cruel arrows torn. 

Be thou, too, patient, and deserve a crown 

Though victor-laurels never press thy brow — 
Thy name may ring the nave of centuries down 
• Though fame doth pass thee by all coldly now. 



THE PATHS OF GLORY. 



Great Homer dead, and laid in grave unknown ; 

The seven cities where he begged his bread, 
Were eager him an honored son to own 

When glory was upon his memory shed. 

liut what unto that wondrous bard, when dust, 
Was all his matchless wealth of unknown fame : 

Methinks, when starving that but one poor crust 
Were more to him than an unchoraled name. 

And what is fame? Hath it not ever been 
As oft foul crime's as lovely virtue's child, 

Of hideous war a scarce less hideous twin, • 

With soil, and smoke, and carnage, all defiled? 

Ah! what is glory at the warrior's grave, 
To him who in its awful silence sleeps ; 

To her who unto him existence gave, 
And o'er its all untimely ending weeps ? 



THE PATHS OF GLORY 



And what to her who wears a widow's weeds, 

Whose pathway all thick-veiled with gloom appears, 

Upon whose heart Despair, remorseless, feeds, 
Who in his grave sees slain her future years ? 

And what unto the tender babes that cry 

Through all the day for father and for bread. 

And through the night with their lone mother lie. 
Like her refusing to be comforted ? 

What is it to the weary land that groans 

'Neath heel of him athirst for grander name. 

Whose people's lives are but spurned stepping-stones 
To higher niche within the wall of fame ? 

Not his, who on his kind waged cruel strife. 
Is fairest name that History's page adorns, 

But His who for them gave a sinless life — 

The Prince of Peace, whose victor-wreath was thorns. 



THE PATHS OF GLORY. 



Full many a soul the ransom will not pay 
That Fortune from her hostages demands, 

But rather in her prison-house would stay 
Than enter Glory's fane with unclean hands. 

How many, too, her galling fetters wear. 

Who in the race for wealth might win a crown, 

If in the lists they manhood would forswear 

And to the false god. Mammon, low bow down. 

And at the game which pseudo-statesmen play, 
One might have gained a senate's glittering prize 

Would he aside his cherished honor lay 

And like themselves, cast down gold-loaded dice. 

Another, too, might fill a high -priest's chair 
Did he not scorn to act a double part ; 

Not scorn with smooth and false lips to declare. 
Fair words that have no echo in his heart. 



THE PATHS OF GLORY. 



Have such not riches, and have such not fame 
E'en though the world may not approval nod ? 

Yea, they have more than fortune, place, or name- 
The smile of Conscience, and the love of God. 

But if Fame true, would on thy steps attend 
Repulse her not, but closely thy walk scan. 

That thou be worthy that she call thee friend, 
And well-deserving of thy fellow-man. 

And wonder not if she should lead thee o'er 
Fair gardens unto homes of lords and kings, 

For she hath key to open wide the door 
Of palaces where Pleasure folds her wings. 

But vaunt not, should men to thee seem to pay 
All homage reverent, of word and look, 

For on thy brow the laurel some will lay 

Who care not for thy conquests, or thy book. 



rilE PATHS OF GLORY. 



As little, too, for thine own self they care, 

Nor, if unsung, would they thy friendship claim ; 

They fawn upon thee now that they may share 
The lustre dazzling that illumes tliy name. 

And fickle Fame is, though so wondrous fair — 

IIow many torches from her altar fire 
Their proud possessors through a night oft bear. 

To pale at morn, to fiicker, and expire. 

Where arc names once emblazoned on her wall, 

By sheep-like crowds hailed with the fool's fund might ? 

Have they not faded, sl(nvly faded, all. 

And passed, like evening, to Oblivion's night? 

And are there not, too, in this later day, 

Those praised as loud, to know as just a fate ; 

And from men's minds to slowly melt away 

Like dark'ning landscape when the hour grows late? 



THE PATHS OF GLORY. 



Names, too, of those who noblest deeds have done 
Are from us borne and dwarfed l)y flying years, 

As is the eagle when he seeks the sun. 

And dims in the blue vault, and disappears. 

Then trust not Fame, nor heed her syren-songs, 
Nor let her honeyed words thy self-love fan. 

To thee Valhallaian shrine not yet belongs— 
With all thy glory, thou art but — a man. 



THE DEAREST FAME. 

\1 7HAT care I if the world shall frown 

And my life's work neglected lies, 
If all the coming years adown 
I read my triumph in thine eyes. 

What care I if indifferent Fame 

Forever dwell from me apart, 
If I know, darling, that my name 

Is graven on thy loving heart. 

Though sweet were glory, and to-day 

To win a world's glad-proffered prize, 
Yet far less precious would be they 
i Than what I read in thy fond eyes. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON. 

LINES FOR THE CENTENNIAL OF HIS INAUGURATION AS 
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. 

T SAW an old yet stately ship 

Her cables for the last time slip 

And ebb with evening away ; 
And as she drifted thwart the gloom 
More grandly did her spars up-loom 

Than through the long bright Summer day. 

So, when a great and good man dies 
And passes to the sea that lies 

Unfathomed, yet so near the world ; 
Far loftier to us seems he then, 
Then ere, — in port beyond our ken, — 

His noble life's fair sails were furl'd. 

THOU, when on earth, wert men too near 
For them to have a vision dear 

Of thy majestic mind and mien ; 
But 'bove the ocean of the Past 
Thy towering figure is at last 

In all its matchless grandeur seen. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON. 



First Captain of our Ship of State! 
If from that sea, God-granted fate 

May let thee call its sad waves o'er, 
Speak to thy people here, to-day, 
And guide till Time our barque shall lay 

In Port of Peace forevermore. 

Thou are not DEAD! Thou livest still 
In words and deeds our hearts to thrill 

To actions worthy of our birth. 
'Neath yon dear flag at mast-head high — 
Our banner borrowed from the sky — 

Its wedded stars the hope of Earth. 



THE GREATEST KING. 

T~\OvST thou know who's the greatest king 

The one of highest worth, 
The prince who wears the signet ring 
Most potent of the earth ? 

'Tis Baby. 

And knowest who's his humblest slave, 

The plaything of his will, 
Who for him her life nearly gave, 

And glad would give it still? 

His Mother. 

Dost thou know who's the minister 

That waits beside his throne, 
Who does to every wish defer 

And makes his law his own ? 

His Father. 



THE GREA TEST KING, 



And wouldst thou know the fair domain 

That he doth rule supreme, 
Tiie realm that glories in his reign 

And makes his deeds its theme ? 

The household. 

Great kings there are who empires guide 

And rule in august state, 
But none hath a domain as wide, 

Nor wields a power as great, 

As Baby. 



THE INJURED FRIEND. 

IN restless mood, one long dark day 
I bade Time haste from me away, 
That speedily I might be blest 
With presence of a lovelier guest. 

Then more in sorrow than in wrath 
He left and trod his deep worn path. 
But moved away with footsteps slow, 
Long lingering, as if loath to go. 

But soon, to my delight, he brought 
The guest whose presence I had sought, 
And I, all thankful, begged him bide 
Forever welcome at our side. 

But then, alas! too late perceived 
That I a friend away had grieved, 
For from me soon he quickly sped. 
And with him, too, my fair guest fled. 



TO A SEED. 

T T OW lifeless thou dost seem to be 

Yet thou dost hold life's mystery, 
Thy bosom doth within it keep 
A secret wonderful and deep. 

Little seed, if thou shouldst tell 
The secret thou dost guard so well. 
Then marveling man would quickly know 
The fount whence his life-currents flow. 

Thou livest! Yet thou needs must die 
And deep within the dark earth lie, 
That from thy grave a tree may grow, 
And blossoms sweet upon it blow. 

So, too, must man return to earth, 
The mother kind that gave him Ijirtli, 
That from her bosom he may rise 
To nobler stature in the skies. 



UNACHIEVED. 

T TOW oft the noblest spirits sigh, 

That toil however well they will, 
Their bravest undertakings still 
Fail to achieve their purpose high. 

The baffled sculptor knows there lurks 
Within the stone (and hence he broods) 
A statue that his art eludes, 

Far greater than his greatest works. 

The painter's fervid fancy glows 

With picture of a lovelier scene 

Than his skilled hand with touch most keen 
Upon the canvas e'er bestows. 

The poet yearns to coin in speech 
The brightest bullion of his brain, 
And eager strives, but all in vain — 

The words are e'er beyond his reach. 



UNACHIEVED. 



The student delving in the mines 

Of knowledge stored through ages past, 
Amid those priceless treasures vast 

His own to make them, vainly pines, 

And scientist, upon the shore 
Of Nature's dark mysterious sea. 
Doth often sadly mourn that he 

Its depths profound cannot explore. 

But who shall question it is wise 
That Heaven limits human power, 
That e'er before us, beckoning, tower 

Heights grander yet for our emprise. 

The soul self-satisfied is dead! 
But joyous triumphs are in store 
For him that conqu'ring, strives the more 

Within yet higher paths to tread. 



w 



SEEDS OF HARVEST. 

OULDST thou garner golden grain, 
Thou must toil and oft in vain. 



Wouldst thou drink the ruby wine, 
Thou must bruise the fruit of vine. 

Wouldst thou see the red sun-rise, 
Night's black wing must veil the skies. 

Wouldst thou view the rain's bright bow, 
Nature's tears must freely flow. 

Wouldst thou see the diamond's light. 
Thou must chafe it day and night, 

Wouldst thou have pure gold of mind, 
As by fire 't must be refined. 

Wouldst thou win the crown of life, 
Thou must know of pain and strife. 



SEEDS OF HARVEST. 



Wouldst thou pass into the sky, 

Thou must in the dark tomb lie. 

Deep ponder this, but do not mourn. 
Oft greatest joys are sorrow-born. 

Oft from tear-watered gardens rise 
Life's fairest flowers towards the skies— 

The hope that Christian brow adorns, 
Was purchased with a crown of thorns. 



w 



SUCCESS. 

HAT is success ? To make full sure, 
Much gold and silver to secure, 

And grind the poor ? 



Is it in gilded coach to roll. 
To feast from epicurean bowl, 

And starve thy soul? 

To be unto thy body kind, 
It purple and fine linen find, 

And stint thy mind? 

Is it a nation's life to save. 

To boast the laurels of the brave. 

Yet Passion's slave ? 

Or proudly wear the robe of State, 
And gain by thine oppressions great, 
A people's hate ? 



SUCCESS. 



Nay, none of these! But to possess 
A mind rich stored — a soul not less — 
Wrong to redress 

The poor to aid, none to oppress ; 
And have all men thy memory bless, 
Is true success. 



TO A BUTTERFLY. 

f TNHAPPY butterfly! 

Thou flewest far and high 
When fair summer held her sway ; 

But thy proud hour is past, 

Thy life is fleeting fast, 
And shall soon ebb all away. 

When bright the sunlight beamed 

It to thy gay heart seemed 
That e'er should stay the hours ; 

That ever thou shouldst sup 

From many a fairy cup, 
The nectar of the flowers. 

But from the North swept fast 
A fierce and chilling blast. 

Laying thy cup-bearers low ; 
And though it here and there 
Did a sweet blossom spare, 

They, like thee, must quickly go. 



30 



TO A /iUTTER/'LV. 



Unhappy butterfly ! 

I low like to thee, am I — 
My life, too, fast fades away 

'Jliough I lioj;e, that it is 

liut the torpid chrysalis 
Of a brigliter, better day. 



AN ARCADIAN'S SOLILOQUY. 

A LONE midst all the city's din, 
^^ Alone, though thousands hem me in I 
Far lonelier are the crowded streets 
Than the green fields and fair retreats 

Fond memory greets. 

There blithesome birds speak unto me 
And cheery brooks laugh merrily, 
There wild-flowers on me kindly smile. 
And all the scene doth me beguile, 

To rest the while. 

Here, thousands pass without a word, 
Naught but rude sounds of trade is heard, 
Scarce else is seen than anxious face — 
All forward press with eager pace 

In life's fierce race. 



AN ARCADIAN'S SOLILOQUY. 



Oh! let me quickly speed away 
To odorous fields, with blossoms gay, 
Where I again shall gladly find 
Joy for my weary soul and mind 

Here close confined. 



SHIPS AT SEA. 

A SHIP at sea! A ship at sea! 

Ah! watch her dancing merrily 

O'er dead men's graves 

Beneath the waves! 
A ship at sea 's a charming sight 
When speeding through the soft star-light, 

And summer gales 

Fill out her sails. 



A ship at sea! A ship at sea! 
Ah! look! she staggers helplessly 

O'er dead men's graves 

Beneath the waves! 
A ship at sea 's a fearful sight 
When storm-chased through the winter night, 

She madly bowls 

Upon the shoals. 



THE EVENING GUN. 

[Governor's Island, New York Harbor.] 



T" 



HE day is done! 
The evening gun 
Proclaims it dead, o'er isle and bay; 
Midst fortress walls 
With shrill sad calls 
Its dirge the brazen bugles play. 

But do not mourn, 

For merry horn 
Will soon be sounding o'er the sea. 

And from the night 

A day more bright, 
On dew-gemmed wings will come to thee. 

So when thy life. 

Its storms and strife, 
At peaceful eve have passed away; 

May trumpets sweet 

In Heaven greet 
Thee with their 'rapturing reveille. 



A PRAIRIE DUEL. 



r^ORTH on the plain as fades the day. 
"'' Two warriors ride in bright array, 
To champion the savage bands 
That file behind them o'er the sands. 



With scornful taunts the foemen greet 
Each other ere they fiercely meet 
Upon the field in battle shock, 
Like thunderbolt against the rock. 

Firm on their steeds they sit erect, 

In gaudy trappings gaily decked, 

With each in hand his keen edged lance, 

Less keen though than his hawklike glance. 

Like eagles now they circle 'round, 
Then plunge their spears into the ground, 
Where, from each of the slender staves, 
A war-flag red, defiance waves. 



36 A PRAIRIE DUEL. 



Again they speed about the plain, 
Then giving their wild steeds the rein 
And catching up their lances bright, 
They close in thickest of the fight. 

The lances sharp their bucklers bite, 
But neither yields to spearsman's might 
Who sweep by like a hurricane. 
Then wheel and onward charge again. 

Once more their glittering lances flash, 
Once more their shields together clash. 
When breaking 'neath Matopa's stroke, 
His foe's blade leaves its staff of oak. 

Which soon as the brave Mandan sees 
His own lance from its thong he frees. 
And with a quick glance of disdain 
Casts down upon the dusty plain. 



A PRAIRIE DUEL. 



Then loud they sound the wild war-whoop 

And swiftly on each other swoop, 

Like battling eagles in the sky 

Their gay plumes waving bright and high. 

On like the prairie fire they sped, 
Their short bows drawn to arrow head, 
And quick almost as string's sharp twang 
The shafts against the bucklers rang. 

Five times the archers sharply wheeled 
Upon that hoof-ploughed battle-field, 
While 'gainst their stout shields' leathern mail 
The whizzing arrows beat like hail. 

At last the Cheyenne sped a dart 
That pierced the Mandan's charger's heart, 
But ere he sank upon the ground 
Matopa reached it with a bound. 



A PRAIRIE DUEL. 



The Cheyenne not to be outvied 
As quick is by his horse's side, 
Which being by the chief set free, 
Doth swiftly from the conflict flee. 

Now fast again the arrows fly 
Till empty both their quivers lie ; 
But more than one sharp dart has found 
A limb exposed and left a wound. 

Once more they raise the shrill war-cry, 
Resolved to triumph or to die, 
And down upon each other bear 
With gleaming hatchets high in air. 

Upon the bucklers fall the strokes 
Like wood-man's axe on forest oaks ; 
But still with all their savage art 
They fail to strike a vital part. 



A PRAIRIE DUEL. 



At last the Cheyenne's battered shield 
Unto Matopa's arm doth yield. 
He casts it from him to the ground, 
The Mandan's there as soon is found. 

Then tomahawks quick meet in air 
And from their helves are shattered there. 
The braves once more together fly 
With flashing knife and flaming eye. 

Blow quickly follows deadly blow, 
And from a score of wounds doth flow 
Upon that dry and thirsty plain, 
A shower of blood, like drops of rain. 

Not long can rage the storm of steel, 
And soon the Cheyenne 's seen to reel. 
His raised arm drops, his brain swims round, 
His tall form sways, he bites the ground. 



A PRAIRIE DUEL. 



Then on him quick Matopa leaps, 

And 'bout his scalp his keen knife sweeps 

And rising, lifts into the air 

The dead chief's lock of raven hair. 

He waves it thrice above his head, 
But soon his hour of triumph 's fled, 
For with a shout of victory hoarse 
He falls upon his foeman's corse. 

Then silently, within one grave. 
The two bands lay their champions brave, 
And guided by the pole-star's light. 
They file away into the night. 



SABBATH BELLS. 

fTUSH ! hearken to the Sabbath bells 

As high their gladsome music swells 
Upon the blossom-scented breeze 
In soul-exalting harmonies. 

How sweetly come and go the calls 
Of those bronz'd watchmen on the walls 
Of Zion's holy house of prayer, 
Borne on the pinions of the air. 

How faithful in their ivy'd tower, 
They vigil keep, and hour by hour 
In measured melodies repeat 
The echoes of Time's flying feet. 

I joy to hear those far-off chimes 
Out-ringing now their wordless rhymes 
And seeming unto me to say : 
"O, sinner, hasten here away." 



SABBATH BELLS. 



To listen to the liquid notes 
Out-leaping from their brazen throats 
And pleading with hearts care-opprest 
To come unto their courts and rest. 

Oft in my childhood's happy hours 
I heard the voices from those towers 
Invoking me my steps to turn 
To Wisdom's ways, of her to learn. 

And one day those grief stricken bells 
Tolled slowly forth their solemn knells, 
And taught to me with muffled breath 
What sorrow was and what was death. 

But loud and merry rang the peal 
When with the church's holy seal 
Two happy hearts by Love made one 
Passed forth upon life's race to run. 



SABBATH BELLS. 



And when white lay the Christmas snow 
I heard their gladsome greetings go 
O'er forest, field, and fettered fen, 
Proclaiming "Peace, good-will to men." 

And soon upon a midnight drear. 
As breathed his last the poor old year. 
Did they the sad glad news outring 
"The King is dead! Long live the King!" 

And cheerily at Easter-tide 
Their voices echoed far and wide: 
"Rejoice that from Christ's tomb this day 
The angels rolled the stone away." 

Hush! hark! again ring out the calls 
Of those bronz'd watchmen on the walls 
Of Zion's holy house of prayer — 
Come, let us to their courts repair. 



A MAY MORNING. 

T WONDER if the world e'er knew 

A breeze more soft or sky more blue 
Than greets this balmy vernal morn, 
A day-child in yon heaven born ! 

From out the budding hawthorn floats 
The gladdest of the thrush's notes, 
While in the blooming orchard near 
The red-breast warbles sweet and clear. 

The grass ne'er had a greener hue, — 
Each tender blade begemmed with dew — 
Nor yonder lakelet's mirror bright 
Reflect a lovelier morning's light. 

The lilac breathes a rich perfume, 
And sweet is the wisteria's bloom, 
While tender lilies of the vale 
A fragrance delicate exhale. 



A MA V MORNING. 



The south-wind through the garden goes 
And wakes the winter-slumb'ring rose; 
Thence wanders on with fickle will 
Adown the glen and o'er the hill. 

And from beneath his golden crown 
The sun on all the land looks down, 
With glances warm and fond that start 
A swifter flood through Nature's heart. 

Mine, long a-wintered, too doth glow 
With her full pulse's overflow, 
And eager is to soar and sing 
With yonder skylark on the wing. 

Ah! surely the world never knew 
A breeze more soft or sky more blue 
Than greets this balmy vernal morn, 
A day-child in yon heaven born! 



A DAY AT NAVESINK HIGHLANDS. 

rjOW glad we land 
Upon the strand 
Of sea and mountain meeting, 
And chase away 
The happy day 
Whose hours too fast are fleeting. 

We climb the height 

With footsteps light, 
And gaze out o'er the ocean. 

Where many a ship 

Doth rise and dip 
With slow and stately motion. 

And then we rove 

Through field and grove, 
The earth with wild flowers smiling, 

While oft is heard 

The voice of bird, 
The joyful hours beguiling. 



A DAY AT NAVESINK HIGHLANDS. 

Now on the tide 

We gaily ride. 
Across the rushing river, 

The crested wave 

Our barque doth lave, 
And make her gently quiver. 

And when we reach 

The wreck strewn beach, 
The weary sun is setting. 

While many a star 

O'er sea afar, 
The azure vault is fretting. 

Upon the shore 

With sullen roar 
The baffled surge is dying, 

And with the day 

The white osprey 
Into the west is flying. 



A DAY AT NAVESINK HIGHLANDS. 

And soon the sun 

His race has run, 
And homeward we are turning, 

While o'er the bay 

The guiding ray 
Of beacon light is burning. 

So, too, alas! 

Must quickly pass 
Life's day and all its dreaming, 

But through the night 

May Hope's clear light 
Upon our path be beaming. 



SUMMER HOURS. 

T LOVE these summer afternoons to lie 
Beneath the over-arching ancient elm, 
And watch the white-winged cloud-ships sail the sky, 
An air-sprite steersman at each shadowy helm. 

To see them slowly marshal in the west 
Like line-of-battle ships for grand review. 

In crimson flags and streaming pennants dressed, 
Near sun-lit shore of sea of heaven blue. 

To breathe the fragrant breath of hay new mown, 
Up wafted from the willow-girted vale, 

To feel the kisses of fresh breezes blown 
From off the lakelet by the southern gale. 

To hear the buzz of honey-freighted bee 
That from the lily's snowy chalice sups, 

And low of cattle, buried to the knee 

Mid daisies white and burnished buttercups. 



SUMMER HOURS. 



To catch the music of their tinkling bells 
Above the toiling mill-wheel's drowsing hum, 

And curfew sweet, from yon church-tow'r that tells 
The restful hours of even-tide have come. 

To listen to the laughter of the stream 

That down the deep glen gayly dancing goes, 

While all the happy hours away I dream 
Indifferent how Life's devious current flows. 

Air careless that when golden summer's past 
Unto these woods and fields shall come a day 

When 'fore the North-wind's fierce and withering blast 
Their leaves and blossoms shall be swept away. 

Rejoicing that these perfect days are mine, 

That when have come and gone the snow and rain. 

As bright will bloom the violet and the vine, 
As sweet will smile the flowery fields again. 



AN AUTUMN AFTERNOON. 

\ yiNE-BURDENED hills of brown and gold, 

A valley robed in red and green, 
The river its fair arms enfold, 
All silvern, silent and serene. 

Two lovers by the water's edge, 

A voiceless speech of eye to eye, 
A sigh, a prayer, a kiss, a pledge, — 

Hand that in loving hand doth lie. 

A dreamy languor in the air, 

Two happy hearts beneath the sky, 

Content to fondly linger where 

The frost-kissed leaves blush red and die. 

A shower of sunshine on the hills, 

From forest boughs a rosy rain ; 
Peace that the heart of Nature fills, 

The peace that autumn brings again. 



THE WEST WIND. 



/-^OME with me to the autumn wood, 
^-^ The West Wind is at play, 
For he' s in a right jocund mood 
This bright October day. 



Before his breath leaves fly like chaff, 

Far out upon the moor, 
O'er which he trips with jolly laugh, 

With footstep light and sure. 

Now see him from the brown burrs shake 

Their ripe nuts to the earth, 
Where blithesome boys and girls awake 

The chipmunks with their mirth. 

Down stooping to a winsome maid 

Amid the leaves aglare, 
He deftly loosens from its braid 

Her soft and sunny hair. 



THE WEST WIND. 



Then quickly kisses her sweet cheek, 

And lips, and neck, so fair. 
So warmly that through all the week 

A blush will linger there. 

Then swift away he lightly skips 

O'er valley and o'er hill, 
And dances with the white-winged ships. 

And with the white-armed mill. 

Now fast he flies across the wave, 

Far out upon the sea, 
And with their crests, the happy knave 

Romps onward in great glee. 

But stay with 'me within the wood, 

He'll soon be back again, 
With train as gay as Robin Hood 

And his right merry men. _ 



A PICTURE OF AUTUMN. 

/^F all the year, I love the days 

^^ When Autumn her soft flushed cheek lays 

Upon the hillside, and the gold 

Of the gay garments that enfold 

Her rare voluptuous form, is seen 

Aglow amidst the grasses green. 

Queen is she of the mellovi^ing world, 
With banners on the cliffs unfurled ; 
Her crown the leaves and berries red 
That wreathe her auburn-tressed head, 
And sceptre, yon bolt-riven pine 
Enspiraled by the purpling vine. 

How lovely is she as she lies 
Adreaming 'neath the yellow skies, 
Her olive arms all fondly wound 
The drowsy northern world around, 
While o'er her couch the mountains keep 
Their vigil true while she doth sleep. 



A PICTURE OF AUTUMN. 



Anon, a truant tress is stirred 
By the warm south-wind, and a bird 
Enamored of the vision sweet. 
Her beauty's praises doth repeat 
From yonder flaming maple tree 
In notes of rippling melody. 

She stirs! Ah! dear one, do not wake 
And from me thy sweet presence take ; 
But sleep while amorous airs caress 
Thy red lips, and thy comeliness 
My love of beauty constant feeds, 
Yet e'er increasing hunger breeds. 

Stay beauteous one, for shouldst thou go 
Then Winter, with his beard of snow, 
"Will hither stride with eager pace, 
Make thy fair haunts his biding place. 
And with his coldly glittering dart, 
Tranfix both mine and Nature's heart. 



A MAIDEN'S JEWEL BOX. 

T KNOW a maid with casket fair, 
Of gems of purest beauty rare, 
With which at dewy eve and morn 
She doth her lovely self adorn. 

Her diamonds are her sparkling eyes 
Like stars in bright Italia's skies 
Which lovers view with rapt delight 
And wish for never ending light. 

Her rubies are her pouting lips. 
Red as the rose the wild bee sips, 
And sweet as honey for his cell 
From lotus-flower and asphodel. 

Her matchless pearls — her snow white teeth, 

Oft peeping from their rosy sheath. 

In bands of faultless coral set 

As rich as those which sea-caves fret. 



AfA/BEJV'S JEWEL BOX. 



Her diadem 's her golden hair, 
Whose tresses kiss her neck so fair. 
Then fondly nestle on her breast 
Like birdlings in their soft warm nest. 

Her balmy breath is her perfume. 
Sweet as June roses in full bloom, 
Or like unto the spicy breeze 
That blows o'er fair Arabia's seas. 

And now, methinks, that you have guessed 
The jewels by that maid possessed, 
Are neither gold nor precious stone, 
And casket,— her dear self alone. 

Her heart — ah! even I can't tell 
What favored guests within it dwell ; 
But surely love and purity. 
And, mayhap, there is room for me. 



FOOLISH MOTHS. 

F^ROM out the dark, one Summer night, 

A moth flew at my candle-light, 
And unto it he sped his flight 
Until it scorched his wings, all white. 

"A foolish little moth," said I, 
" Into the cruel flame to fly." 
To which he seemed to make reply, 
"For love of it I gladly die." 

And then methought, not moth alone 
To Love doth such allegiance own. 
For man, who her fierce fires hath known, 
As blind devotion oft hath shown. 



FIDELITY. 

/^ FRIEND ! if Fate shall bid us part, 
^"^^ Or let our lives run on together; 
E'er true to thee shall beat my heart 
In foul as well as pleasant weather. 

The friendship is of little worth 

On Fortune's smile alone depending, 

Such passion breathes too much of earth 
To be a gift of Heaven's sending. 

So if thou canst not be my friend 
In foul as well as pleasant weather, 

Then let this hour thy fealty end — 
But ne'er forget — I'm thine forever. 



SMOULDERING FIRES. 

^IVTEATH yonder ashes sleeps a fire 

That seems to flicker and expire, 
Yet shall its hidden slumbering spark 
Live through the hours all cold and dark. 

So in my breast there glows a flame, 
That from Love's holy altar came, 
Which through Denial's dismal night 
Shall constant burn though hid from sight. 

And should a maiden that I know 
But lightly on those embers blow, 
They'd burst into an ardent blaze 
Of loving words and loving ways. 



FROWNS AND SMILES. 

TT /"HY seem the skies, till now so bright, 

Clove-veiled with shadows as of night; 
And the blithe birds no more to sing, 
But mute to sit with folded wing: 
The once glad breeze to mourn and mourn 
In doleful songs 'neath pine and thorn; 
And flowers that gaily smiled, be found 
With faces bowed unto the ground ? — 

Ah! Love hath frowned! 



But now the woodland's feathered throng 
Breaks forth in sweet and 'rapturing song; 
The dark and threatening clouds I find 
With lambent light are silver-lined; 
The winds no longer sigh and mourn, 
But on their wide-spread wings are borne 
From violets and roses wild 
Rare fragrance of their bosoms mild. — 

Ah! Love hath smiled! 



BURDEN BEARING. 

/"N LOVE upon thy couch long lain! 
^-^^ My soul goes out to thee to-day, 
To cheer thy lone hours, and thy pain 
To gently woo from thee away ; 
Yes, woo it all away from thee, 
E'en though it e'er abide with me. 

When thou wert free and strong and well 
My heart though yearning had no voice, 
No tale of love to thee to tell ; 

But thou art sick — it has no choice 

Than long to woo thy woes from thee, 
E'en though they e'er abide with me. 

Thy sorrows fill my eyes with tears, 

I must my sympathy declare, 
Oh! that I now and through the years 
Might all thy dear heart's burdens bear ; 
That I might bear them all for thee, 
E'en though they e'er abide with me. 



BURDEN BEARING. 63 



Who knows the gladness days may bring ; 

What weeds of sorrow we may wear? 
May joy unto thee quickly wing ; — 

Oh! would that I thy griefs might bear, 
That I might bear them all for thee, 
E'en though they e'er abide with me, 

O Love how long and vain I've tried 

My heart against thyself to steel ; 
But no, it will not be denied, 

It is not stone, and it must feel ; 

Oh! that I could woo thine from thee 
Forever to abide with me. 



CONSTANCY. 

TIE loved her with as warm a love 
As ever to man's bosom came. 
And yet as pure and true a flame 
As angels know in realms above. 

But Heaven smiled not on his suit, 

And laid his heart's fair orchards waste 
And left upon his lips the taste 

Of Disappointment's bitter fruit. 

Yet still he fondly loved her, for 

Is there aught true these words above : 
"The love that changeth is not love ?" — 

Indeed his passion grew the more. 

So tenderly did she refuse 

So thoughtful for his love and pride, 
'Twas sweeter by her be denied 

Than have some meaner spirit choose. 



CONSTANCY. 65 



Far better thus his fond dream ends 
Than in the flames of rage and hate, 
For now they share the fair estate 

That's granted but to storm-tried friends 

How strange the ways of Providence ! 
That He should let Love build her nest 
So soft and warm within the breast, 

And then so quickly bid joy thence. 

Yet better is it Love should sing 
Her carol there though not for long, 
Than that her sweet ennobling song 

Should never through the heart-chords ring. 

For hearing once her heavenly strain 
The soul to higher life is born, 
And though it be its lot to mourn 

Sweet echoes of the song remain. 



LOVE'S LATER HARVEST. 

?\ /I Y darling, oft I ponder 

That through so many days, 
Together we should wander 

In Friendship's narrow maze, 
Unknowing that but yonder 
Ran Love's far fairer ways. 

Not that our feet were weary, 
For Friendship's feet are light, 

Not that our paths were dreary, 
P'or Friendship's paths are bright ; 

But Love's are far more cheery, 
Are flowery with delight. 

In them let us be moving 

All undeterred by fears, 
Their brighter beauties proving 

Though grief may come, and tears- 
Make up in fonder loving 

Our loss of other years. 



THE BRIDE OF DEATH. 

O HE was a maiden lily-fair, 
^^^ "With eyes like violets bright with dew, 
And sunshine tangled in her hair, 
While on her cheeks twin-roses blew. 

And lovers had she, fond and brave, 
Who earnestly their causes plead. 

But unto each she answer gave : 
"I am yet all too young to wed." 

And then there came, one winter day, 
A suitor grim, that men call Death, 

Who spake as loving words as they, 
But in a hoarser, huskier breath. 

She shrank from him and made reply : 
"I am too young to be thy wife, 

And pardon me, grave sir, but I — 
I fondly love the fair youth. Life." 



THE BRIDE OF DEA TH. 



'And full as fondly loveth he, 

And doth rich proofs of love bestow, 

And so, kind sir, pray pardon me 
That I must say unto thee, no." 

He answered not, but took her hand — 
Her roses now were ashes gray — 

And to his home in Shadow Land 
He led his sweet girl-bride away. 

And in that country, I am told, 

She hath a home more glad and bright 

Than that she left, a thousand-fold, 
Where cometh neither woe nor blight. 

For when was passed the ebon gate 
Death flung his sable mask aside, 

And she beheld with heart elate 
An angel heavenly, was her guide. 



DEJECTION. 



OENEATH thy spell, sweet evening star, 

My fancies fly to worlds afar : — 
Oh! that they could bring back to me 
Word from my Love 'yond Death's dim sea. 



Oh! that they could unto me tell 
Where she doth this fair evening dwell 
Say if with mine her heart keeps beat 
And holds it in remembrance sweet. 

Like Noah's dove, from o'er that sea 
My fancies backward come to me, 
With weary foot and weary wing, 
But home no olive branch they bring. 

Canst thou not tell, O Venus, queen 
Of night, all radiant and serene ? 
Canst thou not look within her heart 
And say if I in it have part ? 



DEJECTION. 



No answer ? Nay. No answer, save 
The sobbing of the mournful wave, 
' That breaks upon yon lonely shore 
With baffled yearning ever more. 

No answer? Yea! O'er Death's dark sea 
Hope speaks in voice divine to me. 
And I believe, my heart at rest, 
That I am of my Love's possessed. 



IN EXTREMIS. 

\1 TTIY tremblest thou my soul 

To spread thy wavering wing 
For thine eternal goal ? 

This world is not thy home, 
But yonder star-lit dome. 
Where songs angelic ring. 

Why tremblest thou my soul. 

Though clouds the heavens fill 
And black the billows roll? 
Remember Galilee, 
The Lord, who calmed its sea, 
Can whisper, " Peace, be still." 

Then tremble not my soul 

Like some storm-startled dove, 
Soon back the clouds will roll 

And thou shalt take thy flight 
To yon Celestial height, 
Death's battlements above. 



THE GREAT PHYSICIAN. 

T'^HERE is a balm for every wound, 
For every heart-ache, every care ; 
Time hath a sure elixir found 
For every soul that doth despair. 

Some maladies more quickly yield 
Than others to his soothing art, 

Yet soon or late they all are healed, 
E'en that most sad, a broken heart. 

For if, perchance, one hopeless saith 
"No cure for mine can e'er be found. 

He pours his sovereign balsam, death. 
All gently in the cruel w^ound. 



TO DEATH. 

/'"X EVER living, ever sleepless, ever dreadful 

^-^ ^ Death ! 

Whose drink is blood, the slain thy food, 

and pestilence thy breath, 

Thou scourge of every zone ! 
In age to come, w^hen Time his last loud 

bugle-call shall sound, 
Thou wilt amid the awful ruin of the world 

be found, 

Full sated,' and alone. 



SURCEASE OF SORROW. 



D' 



EAD but a year, 
Yet never tear 
Her once sad eyes seem now to know, 
Though many a day 
We thought that they 
Would never for him cease to flow. 

And yet full sure 

Love doth endure, 
And burn with true though hidden flame 

Her heart doth still 

All fondly thrill 
At thought or mention of his name. 

But God's own voice 

Bade her rejoice. 
And brush her bitter tears away ; 

And to her said : 

" Lift up thy head 
And sorrow's robes aside now lay." — 



SURCEASE OF SORROW. 75 



When hearts are torn 

They need must mourn, 
For God hath wisely made us so, 

But full as wise 

He bids us rise 
Soon from our gloomy seats of woe. 

For little, Earth 

Or life were worth, 
If we should sorrow all our days, 

Nor could we fight 

For bread or right 
If threading ever grief's dark ways. 



RESURGAM. 

/^ SORROWING heart, be comforted ! 
^"^^ In some wise way beyond our ken, 
Our loved ones sleeping with the dead 
To us shall be restored again. 

The Scriptures give assurance sweet 
That on the blest .Elysian shore 

We shall with hearts all joyous greet 
Our dear ones who have gone before. 

And every tribe in every age — 

The greatest and the best of men — 

Untutored savage, learned sage — 

Have held, the dead shall rise again. 

Yea, true it is, the dead shall live. 
For God would not such confidence 

To all mankind so fully give 

Did He not mean to call us hence. 



RESURGAM. 



And Nature doth the lesson teach 

That from our dead selves we shall rise, 

To stature now beyond our reach 
Within the garden of the skies. 

The fairest flower that decks the glen 
Once slept within the earth's dark breast, 

And in it shall repose again 
To rise in richer beauty drest. 

The winter comes, and Nature lies 
Close-wrapped in winding sheet of snow, 

But from her sepulchre shall rise 
When southern zephyrs softly blow. 

Shall rise and her fair form array 
In the new-wove and beauteous dress 

Her bright hand-maiden, winsome May, 
Hath brought to robe her loveliness. — 



78 RESURGAM. 



O sorrowing heart, be comforted ! 

In some wise way beyond our ken, 
Our loved ones sleeping with the dead 

To us shall be restored again. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

I WOULD a simple garland lay 
Upon the bier of her as sweet 
A woman God hath let me meet 

Upon my life's mysterious way. 

A pilgrim on whose pathway glowed 
A larger measure of the light 
That beameth from his presence bright 

Than falls upon my darker road. 

A traveler who seemed to hear 
Songs lost to souls less sanctified, 
And her sweet spirit to abide 

Within a holier atmosphere. 

A soul as spotless and as white 

As new-born snow, or the fair rose 
That doth so lovingly repose 

Upon her bosom through the night. 



8o IN ME MORI AM. 



Her gentle nature ever kept 

The blossonm of its perfect youth, 
And in her heart abode fair Truth, 

A sentinel that never slept. 

As sweet as sunlight was her mind, 
With noble scorn of all things base, 
And in no close nor narrow space 

Were her warm sympathies confined. 

No pride low-born did she possess, 
In strifes vainglorious bore no part 
Her happy kingdom was the heart, 

Her mission here to love and bless. 

And from her presence seemed to fall 
Like benedictions from on high, 
Or dew from out the evening sky, 

A shower of sunshine on us all. 



IN MEMORIAM. 8i 



For hers was an unselfish heart 
That gladly shared another's load. 
And those she comforted, bestowed 

The tribute " Smile of God thou art." 

That smile was mirrored in her face, 
While in her deep and tender eyes 
Two gentle spirits from the skies, 

Seemed to have found a dwelling place. 

But one day, on her fair brow fell 
The shadow of the angel Death. 
She smiled, and with scarce altered breath 

Said, "Lord, Thou doeth all things well." 

And then upon another day 

The angel laid in his, her hand, 
And to the bright celestial land 

All silently they sped away. 



82 IN MEMORIAM. 



She's dead ! And yet those tender eyes 
Are only closed in blissful sleep, 
For He who did o'er Lazarus weep 

Shall bid her, too, like him, arise. 

She is not dead ! She still doth live 
In memories of word and deed, 
That are the precious fruitful seed 

Of harvests yet new joy to give. 

And though she here ne'er woke the lyre 
Nor wrought in measured verse her song, 
We know she doth to-day belong 

To the angelic heavenly choir. 

And she would not have us to weep 
Nor in despair's dark caverns grope. 
But ever the sweet blessed hope 

Of her dear Saviour's rising keep. 



IN MEMORIAM. 83 



But love bids sorrow's tears to flow, 
Grief, true as joy, is Heaven-born, 
And feeling now its sharpest thorn, 

Fond hearts break 'neath their weight of woe. 

And broken, how can they but bleed ? 
Surcease of tears Time only brings — 
Love to its own in death still clings, 

Like the torn vine to prostrate reed. 

But see ! From yonder radiant shore 
She beckons her loved ones to come ; 
Earth's shifting lights and shadows from 

To be with her forever more. 



AN ANGEL'S BIRTH. 

T^HE glory of the house is gone 

Like sunset from the sky, 
Or rose, that spite of tend'rest care 
But beauteous blooms to die. 

And as a weary child at eve 
On mother's heart doth rest, 

So did our loved one fall asleep 
Upon her Saviour's breast. 

A smile so Heav'nly lit her face 
As she closed her tired eyes, 

We knew that she was entering 
The gateway of the skies. 

So softly, gently, did she breathe 
We scarce could catch her breath, 

And then it ceased, and we believed 
That what we saw was death. 



'iV ANGEVS BIRTH. 



And so it was to us sad end 
Of her sweet stay on Earth, 

But unto souls in Paradise 
A sister's joyous birth. 



SHE SLEEPS. 

O TIE sleeps beneath the stars to-night, 

Beneath the full orb'd moon, 
Whose softly falling sliafts of light 
Make fair the midnight noon. 

She sleeps among the flowers to-night, 
The flowers she loved so well, 

Which scarce can hide their fond delight 
That she doth with them dwell. 

The pansy whisi)ers : ".She is licre," 
The rose says: "Welcome home," 

And the blue violet drops a tear 
Of joy, that she is come. 

And in sweet strains ere died the day, 
From many a shrub and tree 

The birds sang forth a gladsome lay 
That she should with them be. — 



SHE SLEEPS. 87 



O stars ! how can ye shine so bright — 

And moon ! thy rays distill, 
When shades as of the darkest night 

Our joyless bosoms fill ? 

O birds ! how can ye carols swell, 
O flowers ! how can ye bloom, 

When she who loved you all so well 
Lies voiceless in the tomb? 

We sing ; " the blithe birds seem to say, 
" Because she midst the flowers. 
Is not entirely yours to-day, 
But Heaven's too, and ours." 

And from the starry firmament 

A sweet voice softly falls : 
Your loved one was to you but lent 

From these celestial halls. 



SHE SLEEPS. 



And though 'tis meet that you should mourn 

For her beneath the flowers, 
Yet do not weep as those forlorn 

Whom hopeless grief o'erpowers. 

For yonder grave keeps but the gold 

In which was set the gem 
That sparkles now with light untold 

In Heaven's diadem." 



TO ONE BEYOND THE GATES. 

T F unto saints above, be giv'n 

To comfort souls here sorrow riv'n, 
Sweet Spirit speak to mine to-night 
And cheer it with thy presence bright ! 

How changed the world with thee away ! 
December darkness glooms my May : 
A joy no longer are its flowers 
With thee not here to glad the hours. 

How could sweet Spring that gave thee birth 
Yield thee unto the cold dark Earth 
While her rejoicing realm was rife 
With new-born loveliness and life ? 

Why not let Winter drear, command 
Thy footsteps to " the Silent Land," 
When she shall abdicate her throne 
To rule the distant Austral zone ? 



TO ONE BEYOND THE GATES. 



Or Autumn weave of red and gold 

A robe thy fair form to enfold, 

In far off years, when from the plain 

The birds have plumed their flight again ?- 

And art thou gone ? Ah ! it doth seem 
My grief must be a troubled dream, 
A dreadful nightmare that will take 
Its clutches off me when I wake. 

Shall wake to find thou art still here 
As sweet and fair and doubly dear, 
Unknowing how beloved thou wast 
Until I fancied thou wert lost. 

But no, I dream not, — thou art dead ! 
But ah ! what means that word so dread? 
Does death but prune the tree of life 
Or to its very root lay knife ? 



TO ONE BEYOND THE GATES. 



Did'st thou but sweetly bud and bloom 
To glad the earth and grace the tomb, 
Or dost thou yet more beauteous rise 
Among the flowers of Paradise ? 

No answer ? Then hast thou forgot ? — 
Oh ! can it be that thou art fwt? — 
Has death's dark deep one only shore, 
One only echo : " Nevermore? " 

" Nay, doubting heart." — But to what strand 
Did angels draw with loving hand 
Thy barge across the shadowy sea, 
That lies between thyself and me ? 

And of that sea what canst thou say 
To us who here like children play 
All thoughtless on the treacherous sand 
And structures rear Time to withstand, 



TO ONE BEYOND THE GATES. 



Forgetful that the rising tide 
Will up the shore all-stealthy glide, 
And sap our work of hand and brain, 
No vestige of it to remain? 

Do lightnings leap the dread gulf o'er 
And thunders roll from shore to shore, 
When those that sail it void of hope 
Upon decks dark and slippery grope ? 

And does the tempest flee away 
And zephyrs gently o'er it play. 
When barques that carry such as thou 
Cleave its black wave with silvern prow? 

And of the land where thou dost dwell — 
What canst thou of its mysteries tell 
To us who wait the muffled oar 
To urge us to the unknown shore? 



TO ONE BEYOND THE GATES. 93 



Where is that country, near or far? — 
Upon the earth or yonder star? — 
What doth humanity await, 
A change of place, or change of state ? 

For did'st thou wing from us thy flight, 
Or dost thou linger, lost to sight 
Because our natures are too dense 
To fellowship with spirit-sense? 

Nay, thou art gone — But where, ah ! where 

Is the retreat that thou dost share 

In bliss ineffable e'ermore, 

With the blest pilgrims gone before ? 

Can we within yon spangled skies 
Behold the gates of Paradise, 
And canst thou from its gardens gaze 
Into the eyes which we upraise? 



94 TO ONE BEYOND THE GATES. 



Is that fair land a land of flowers, 
Of harp, and song, and idle hours, 
Which all in thoughtless pleasure spend 
With naught of further hope or end ? 

Or do ye in glad labors grow 
To nobler measure than we know 
Of mind and soul, and thus attain 
To grace for which we strive in vain ? 

Thou canst not tell me ? Nor can those 
The secrets of thy bourne disclose 
Who to the drum-beat of the years 
Have thither marched with joy or tears. 

And who that draweth mortal breath 
Can solve life's deepest problem, death ; 
Or vision hath to penetrate 
The mists that veil the spirit state ? 



TO ONE BEYOND THE GATES. 



But may I not hope that some day 
Those baffling mists will melt away, 
And to my raptured eyes reveal 
The glories they now close conceal? 

That thou wilt then to me make known 
Grand truths to thee familiar grown, 
And to my marveling ears rehearse 
The story of the universe? 

And though my heart can ne'er be stirred 
On earth by thy sweet uttered word, 
May not thy soul speak to my soul 
And it to noble deeds control? 

Canst thou not turn my feet away 
From paths in which they go astray, 
That in my better hours I hate,— 
Paths sorrow-strewn and desolate? 



96 TO ONE BEYOND THE GATES. 



May'st thou not nerve me for the fight 
Between the evil and the right : 
That warfare without arm'stice save 
The truce proclaimed above the grave ? 

To fight my most relentless foe, 
Myself, the subtlest that I know, — 
Not one that bravely storms the gates 
But who within them hidden waits. 

If thou canst thus with me abide, 
Then be my angel guard and guide 
Through this dark land ; and o'er the tide 
That I must cross to reach thy side. 

Ah ! if I now could come to thee 
And thou wouldst joy in seeing me, 
I'd seek the ways with eager feet 
That lead unto thy blest retreat. 



TO ONE BEYOND THE GATES. 



Not yet. — Then, if the grace be giv'n 
To thee to glad souls sorrow riv'n, 
Sweet spirit speak to mine to-night 
And cheer it with thy presence bright. 



A MEMORY. 

'T'HE twilight falls on flood and field, 

As 'yond the purpling peaks, the sun 
Another day's march nearly done. 

Hides from my gaze his flaming shield. 

And on the wings of reverie, 

Up through the portals of the Past, 
From its hushed chamber dim and vast, 

A shadowy host comes unto me. 

Ah ! memory is a two-edged sword 

That heweth ways for thoughts that bless 
And pangs remorseful that possess 

The heart for evil deed and word. 

Dark paths for phantoms grim that fret 
The soul for sins long yielded up ; 
Unwelcome guests, that bid it sup 

The bitter dregs of vain regret. 



A MEMORY. 99 



Ways, too, thank God ! for visions sweet 
Of scenes and loved ones lost to sight — 
One, sainted now, who doth to-night 

Look downward from her blest retreat. 

To her my memory cleaves a path 
Long which fond recollections run, 
To kind words said, good actions done ; — 

The richest heritage it hath. 

Words music made by gentle voice — 
God's sweetest gift to woman kind — 
Acts gendered by a noble mind 

That made thoughts glad and good its choice. 

For yon shy-glancing violet 

Is scarce more sweetly innocent 

Of sinful deed or wrong intent 
Than she whose life's bright star has set. 



A MEMORY. 



Set, not as Venus dims and dies 
At eve beyond the western hills ; 
But when as Morning-Star she thrills 

The East, and melts in glad sunrise. 



ASPIRATION. 

A T times my yearning spirit seems 
'**■ To catch some of the light that beams 

On dwellers in a higher sphere ; 
And singers on that far off shore 
Sweet measures of their songs to pour 
Into my raptured, listening ear. 

My better nature then awakes, 
And from itself all joyful shakes. 

The subtle and insidious foe 
That in my weaker moments bends 
Its purpose to ignoble ends, 

Whose harvests are but sheaves of woe. 

My thoughts take wing and eager rise 
Like cage-freed birds into the skies. 

Rejoicing to be unconfined 
By fetters harsh which long have bound. 
In dungeons gloomy and profound, 

A groveling prisoner, my mind. 



ASPIRATION. 



Ah ! that I e'er might catch the light 
That streams from out the portals bright 

Of that far-off Celestial sphere ; 
That I might always hear the song 
That 's wafted ever sweet and strong 

To those that dwell its precincts near. 



THE EVENING DEW. 

T TOW silently descends the dew 
Upon the drooping flowers, 
Their waning sweetness to renew 
Through all the moon-lit hours. 

From every petal gleams the light 

Of many a liquid gem ; 
They sparkle on the robe of night, 

Upon its golden hem. 

The purple pansy smiles again. 
And redder blooms the rose. 

While every floweret of the fen 
In brighter beauty blows. 

The languid lily lifts her head, 
The violet opes her eyes, 

And all their sisters fair are fed 
With nectar of the skies. 



I04 THE EVENING DEIV. 



So be the dews of grace distilled 
Into our hearts each night, 

And every morning see them filled 
With the Celestial light. 

And from each happy, grateful breast 
Shall glad thanksgivings rise, 

And still ascend when we shall rest 
'Neath palms of Paradise. 



THE CELESTIAL CITY. 

T KNOW not where resplendent rise 

The golden gates of Paradise, 
Upon what far off blissful shore 
The blessed dead dwell evermore ; 
But oft it to my fancy seems 
The sunset's glories are the gleams 
Out-flashing from the portals bright ■ 
Of that fair land that has no night. 

'Tis but an idle thought I know — 

But can the gates Celestial glow 

With more refulgent radiance, 

Than those through which, with glittering lance. 

With banners barred with blue and gold 

And pennons streaming gay and bold, 

The cohorts of triumphant day 

March flushed with victory away ? 



THE CELESTIAL CITY. 



Ah ! Who can tell ? — Beyond the ken 

Of the cramped intellects of men, 

The infinite solution lies 

Of the vast problems of the skies : 

But should I when life's day is done 

March with those legions, victory won, 

Skies lovelier I could not ask 

Than yon bright arch 'neath which to bask. 

And yet, less lovely — ah ! how far — 

The evening's glories must be — are. 

Than those which for immortals wait 

Beyond the New Jerusalem gate ! 

Blest city of eternal noon ! 

That needs not sun, nor stars, nor moon, 

But thrills with the supernal light 

That shines from God's own presence bright. 



A SHEAF OF 

SONNETS. 



STAR QUESTIONINGS. 

\1 TTIAT is your story, O ye winged spheres! 
That in unerring and unflagging flight 
Have onward circled, giving life and light 
To worlds uncounted through the countless years, 
And shall when our globe puny disappears 
Amidst the gloom of an eternal night : 
What power transcendent guideth you aright 
In your stupendous and sublime careers? 

O isles adrift in the celestial seas ! 

Shall angel pilot sometime guide us o'er 

Those depths unfathomed, from bright strand to strand, 
From pole-star to the glittering Pleiades, 
And on and on, until at last before 

The throne of Him that ruleth all, we stand ? 



THE UNSEARCHABLE. 

4 4/^^ANST thou, O Man! by searching find out God? 
^■^^ — Say how from one seed this white lily grows, 

And from another yonder blushing rose 
In differing beauty from the self-same sod ? 
And hast thou in thy feeble grasp a rod 

To gauge yon sparkling gulf — say whence it flows, 
And through what depths unfathomable it goes 
And will, when Time on Earth writes, " Ichabod ! " 

To seek thy little self to know, is vain — 
Yon slimy pool hath secrets past the ken 
Of mortal intellect — how shalt thou then 
To knowledge of the infinite attain — 

Upon thy puny close-clipped pinions rise 
To pass the awful ramparts of the skies ? 



THE LOOM OF LIFE. 

A LL men are weavers, and life is the loom 

In which with threads oft strangely intricate 
They weave the motley fabric of their fate ; 
Some with glad song, and others unto whom 
No ray of joy e'er seems to reach through gloom 
Of thwarted hope or hearth-stone desolate : 
And some, who with an empty shuttle wait 
Release from labor, in their dark'ning room. 

Release from labor ! — But what of the night 

Whose shadows soon o'er all will softly creep — 
Is it a dreamless and eternal sleep ? 
Nay, something says my loved ones passed from sight 
Have wakened in a land of rest and bliss 
Undreamed by us who labor on in this. 



AT A GRAVE. 

A ND this, her tomb ! How hard to realize 

That in that dark and narrow dwelling-place 
Are hid from us her once fair form, and face 
With life illumined, and her tender eyes : 
But she herself, thank God ! is in the skies 
To which I dare to think she addeth grace. 
And muse if she upon my brow can trace 
The love I bear her, and can hear the sighs 
That will escape me — if she sees the flow'r 
I lay upon the daisy-dappled mold 
That doth her once bright earthly temple hold. 
And near which, (though 'neath Time's benumbing pow'r 
Tears flow not now as oft they flowed before), 
I grieve, alas ! because I grieve not more. 



THE DEAD TRAGEDIAN. 

r^ING down the curtain! He has played his part 
Well, in the last grim tragedy of Earth, 
And seldom hath a mind of ampler girth 

Its genius lent unto the actor's art. 

Not only bade he Pity's tears to start, 
And to emotions deeper yet gave birth, 
But in life's sterner drama proved his worth 

And his possession of a noble heart. 

Ring up the curtain ! that fond tongues may tell 
How, after bitter years of toil, and strife 
With adverse fortune, he achieved the crown 
The victor wears, and wore his laurels well, 
Until, when in the very lists of life. 

Death bade him halt, and lay his good lance down. 



WASHINGTON. 

A S some grand forest patriarch doth fall 

Beneath the silent axe-strokes of the years ; 
So, 'neath them sank, as flowed a nation's tears 
One never deaf unto his country's call, 
And who in camp and in the council-hall 

A conquest wrought of all her maiden-fears — 
He whose exalted character endears 
His memory to the alien nations all. 

Yea, though unto the warrior's wreath of fame 

And to a more resplendent civil crown 
His right the world doth willingly proclaim, 
Yet grander unto it is his renown 

That none may on the page of History scan 
The name of nobler patriot, or man. 



THE BIRTH OF SONG. 

IV /I ETHINKS, no mother in the joyful hour 

When first unto her bosom she doth press 
Pier new-born child, knows greater happiness 
Than doth the poet, when the quick'ning pow'r 
Of thought creative stirs his mind, as show'r 
A once glad garden in the drouth's duress — 
Ah! would that such a rain my soul might bless 
And make it joy again with bud and flow'r 
Of fancy, as in the long vanished days, 
When visions to it came, and thoughts, and words, 
On wing as free as do north-flying birds 
In Springtime to the forest's leafy maze. — 
And as I hope ere long they'll come to me 
From field and grove and from the shimmering sea. 



MIDSUMMER LONGINGS. 

'T'HERE is a fair green valley far away 

Deep nestling in the bosom of the hills 
For which my soul close-prisoned, pines to-day 

To wander as its vagrant fancy wills, 
By leaf-strewn stream, in forest, glen, and glade, 

Where the sweet spirit of the woodland broods 
O'er realm that Mammon's legions ne'er invade, 

Hid from their gaze in those vast solitudes. 

Thence Nature's blithe ambassadors the birds. 

Speed unto me and in glad measures sing 
A message all too sweet to voice in words, 

That bids me home with them my flight to wing 
And gladly would I with her envoys fly 
Did not a fate unkind, that boon deny. 



A MOUNTAIN TEMPEST. 

r^EEP growlings from the swiftly dark'ning West 
As though a mighty forest monarch there, 
Had bounded from his rock-begirted lair 
And was of some grim enemy in quest. 
Here, Nature hushed into a dread unrest. 

Till through the startled and quick-quivering air 
Rings the wild storm-wind's strident bugle-blare 
To herald advent of a fearful guest. 

Now 'cross the sky zigzagging lightnings flash. 

And soon — a liquid avalanche — the rain 
Sweeps down the gorge, while warring thunders crash 
As if to rend the murky veil in twain. 

An half hour gone — birds sing within the glen, 
And Nature, through her tears smiles glad again. 



TO MY BOOKS. 

I'M in my room alone, yet not alone; 

For Heav'n hath granted me the happy fate 
In you to hold sweet converse with the great, 
And with the noblest spirits Earth has known: 
And when of self or work aweary grown 

I am cast down, or when my heart 's elate, — 
Or whatsoe'er my mood, on it ye wait, 
And if I will, make your great thoughts my own. 

What pleasure in your fellowship I find, 
O sweet companions of my solitude, 
That never on my privacy intrude 
And yet are always willing to my mind — 
Methinks life oft would scarce be worth the living 
Were ye not ever ready to be giving. 



NAMES. 

Q HAKESPEARE hath somewhere said: "What 's in 

^^"'^ name ? " 

And yet methinks he 'd wear an humb'er crown 
If his cognomen had been Black or Brown ; 

And Tennyson would have a dimmer fame, 

And Coleridge be hailed with less acclaim, 

Had their winged steeds been weighted down 
With Jones or Smith — nor would the high renown 

Of Milton — say as Scroggins— been the same. 

Yea, "Rose by other name would smell as sweet," 
And yet there 's sweetness in the very word — 

Resounding names have conquered glorious fates, 
While those less tuneful did their bearers cheat 

Of fame the world would gladly have conferred 

Had their names been more pleasing advocates. 



